


Gross Misrepresentations

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-11
Updated: 1999-04-11
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: In which a large falling chunk of ice and its aftereffects make a lot of disappointed fans very, very happy again.





	Gross Misrepresentations

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Gross Misrepresentations  
  


## Gross Misrepresentations 

  
by Nathan Alderman  
  
Ray Vecchio heard them coming halfway down the hallway.  
  
Hot, sticky summer air seeped into the District 27 squad  
room from the dark outside, and  
the tiny tin fan on Ray's desk wasn't moving much of it  
around. The little hand on the squad  
clock stretched toward two, but the room was packed; word  
on the wire had the Capelli  
family moving a big shipment of china white down across  
the lake tomorrow morning, and  
there were preparations to be made. The crowd didn't do  
much for the temperature.  
  
Ray ran his fingers absentmindedly over the surface of  
his desk blotter, tapping on all the  
numbers of the vintage Buick dealers he'd called about  
a replacement. He didn't even want  
to think about insurance rates right now. What, blowing  
the car up wasn't enough, they had  
to set it on fire and drive it into the lake? Never give  
anyone else the keys again, Ray swore  
to himself.  
  
The coffee on his desk sat untouched in its styrofoam  
cup, which was okay-- he was pretty  
sure Frannie had spit in it sometime between him asking  
her for it in his usual courteous  
manner and her placing it on his desk with a look that  
said "I hope you burn your tongue."  
He could have used it, though-- at this hour the paperwork  
was all starting to blur together  
into one gray mass, and Ray was about to pass out face-first  
in it.  
  
Then, over the phones and the gossip and the five different  
radios playing three different  
stations, and the rustling of paper and the orders and  
questions and file cabinet drawers  
slamming open and shut... he heard clicking.  
  
Nails on linoleum. Dog nails. No, check that-- wolf nails.  
Then the voices.  
  
One, more Chicago than Chicago: "I'm telling you  
Fraser, it never happened."  
  
Another, clipped and polished: "Yes, well, are you  
certain, Ray? Because I seem to  
recall--"  
  
And there they were, walking into the squad room. Stanley  
"Ray" Kowalski, in leather  
jacket, sweaty T-shirt and jeans. And Benton Fraser, Supermountie,  
in comic-book red  
serge. Diefenbaker the wolf skipped any introductions  
and beelined for the snack machines.  
  
  
"Where the hell have you guys been?" Ray shouted.  
"Last I heard you were sledding off into  
the Yukon."  
  
"Territories, Ray," the Mountie said calmly  
as Ray walked up to them. It was like he'd been  
gone a couple hours, not three months. "Oh, and congratulations  
on your marriage.  
Shouldn't you be in Florida?"  
  
"What?" blurted Ray.  
  
"Your marriage," the Mountie explained. "To  
Stella."  
  
"What?" said Kowalski.  
  
"And the bowling alley in Florida," the Mountie  
added serenely.  
  
"Benny, what are you talking about?" Ray marveled.  
"I didn't marry Stella."  
  
Kowalski resumed breathing and unclenched his fists.  
  
"I didn't move to Florida," Ray continued, "and  
why on Earth would I open a bowling  
alley?"  
  
"I don't know, Ray," Fraser replied. "It's  
your bowling alley."  
  
"What's this about you and Stella?" Kowalski  
asked suspiciously.  
  
"Wait, Ray, are you absolutely positive you didn't  
get married?" Fraser asked.  
  
"Yes!" Vecchio replied. "Geez, Benny, what  
do you take me for? Like I'm going to meet  
some girl, get married and go running off to Florida to  
set pins for cranky retirees? How  
long have you known me, Fraser?"  
  
Fraser considered. "I guess you're right, Ray."  
  
"Thank you," said Ray.  
  
"You sure you didn't marry Stella?" Kowalski  
asked, just to be certain.  
  
"Of course not." Ray told him. "We're engaged."  
  
Kowalski clenched his fists again.  
  
"Well, I'm very happy for you, Ray," the Mountie  
said. "And how is Francesca taking  
motherhood?"  
  
"What?" Vecchio nearly choked.  
  
"You know," Fraser went on, "Francesca  
and her eight immaculate conceptions?"  
  
Kowalski intervened. "'Scuse him. Sgt. Preston here  
kinda got hit on the head by a big  
chunk of ice while we were up North. He was delirious  
the whole way back. You ever put  
up with a delirious Mountie, Vecchio?"  
  
"Yeah. Did he sing?"  
  
"Oh, God, yes." Kowalski rolled his eyes in  
disgust. "The Ballad of Somebody or Other. I  
think in Canada, if you like discover a rock, you get  
a ballad. Maybe it's a law or  
something."  
  
"So Turnbull didn't get hit by a bus?" Fraser  
asked suddenly.  
  
"No," the two Rays said.  
  
"Oh dear," Fraser pondered. "I guess I'll  
have to cancel those flowers I sent. But Ray, we  
found the hand of Franklin, didn't we?"  
  
"That was your hand, Fraser," Kowalski told  
him. "It got half-buried in the snow and you  
started looking at it and going, 'We found it, we found  
it.' And then you started singing "O,  
Canada."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Several times. Loudly."  
  
"That chunk of ice that hit him on the head,"  
Ray asked. "Has that worn off yet?"  
  
"God only knows," Kowalski replied.  
  
"And Inspector Thatcher's not in Iraq?" Fraser  
asked.  
  
"Don't I wish," Ray grimaced. "Nah, she's  
still here. She's been working with us on this  
whole Capelli sting. Or more specifically, she's been  
telling us how to work. "  
  
"Yes, that sounds like her all right," the Mountie  
replied. Was there a note of fondness in his  
voice?  
  
"Hey Fraser, that reminds me," asked Kowalski,  
"that last night in camp, did you and  
Thatcher-- um, well-- you know--"  
  
"I beg your pardon, Ray?"  
  
"Never mind." Kowalski studied the water stains  
on the ceiling tiles.  
  
"And Dewey and Huey didn't open a comedy club?"  
Fraser asked.  
  
"Not unless it opened and closed in the span of one  
evening," Vecchio responded.  
  
"Hmmm. Well, I suppose that's possible. And you didn't  
cough up a golden bullet?"  
  
"Exactly how hard did that chunk of ice hit you,  
Fraser?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Ray. I believe I was unconscious at  
the time. But Lieutenant Welsh is still  
here?"  
  
"You kidding me? I'm sure he's going to be real happy  
to see you two. He's probably  
stocking up on Pepto-Bismol already."  
  
"I wasn't, like, supposed to come back here or nothin'  
after we finished that case up in  
Canada, was I?" Kowalski asked, rubbing the back  
of his neck with one hand. "Cause I  
kinda figured I'd get reassigned anyway..."  
  
Ray just indicated a desk pushed up next to his own. As  
Kowalksi approached, he could  
see a freshly minted nameplate: DET. RAY KOWALSKI. That,  
and stacks and stacks of  
paperwork.  
  
"Welsh decided I needed another partner, preferably  
one who actually had citizenship in this  
country," Ray explained. "Assuming you ever  
came back, anyway. It's all yours if you want  
it."  
  
"Wait-- you, uh, you aren't mad about the car?"  
Kowalski asked. "'Cause I was meaning to  
tell you about it. Really."  
  
"Course not," Ray lied. He hoped Kowalski enjoyed  
losing at poker. "And you, you aren't  
mad about Stella? We were going to telegraph, but we didn't  
know where to reach you..."  
  
"Course not," Kowalski lied. After all, they  
weren't married _yet._  
  
"Partners?" Ray asked, extending his hand reluctantly.  
  
"Ah, what the heck," Kowalski replied. "I  
guess so. Partners."  
  
They shook hands.  
  
"Well," Fraser remarked to Diefenbaker, watching  
the two Rays bicker over whose stuff  
was on what side of the desks, "if none of that ever  
happened, then why on earth did I write  
it all down in my journal?"  
  
Diefenbaker ignored him in favor of the two-pack of cellophane-wrapped  
twinkies.  
  
"I don't suppose..." Fraser wondered. He looked  
around. "Dad?" he asked.  
  
Nothing. The sounds of the squad room. A phone rang in  
one of the offices away down the  
hallway.  
  
"No, " Fraser sighed. "I guess not."  
Diefenbaker whimpered sympathetically.  
  
Across the room, Welsh stuck his head out of his office  
door and bellowed, "Vecchio!"  
Both Rays turned.  
  
"Get in here! Yeah, both of you. Kowalski, where  
the hell have you been?" Welsh turned  
his head and saw the Mountie.  
  
"What, are you still hanging around here?" he  
asked. "Don't you have something Canadian  
to do?" Which of course meant: welcome back. "Wait,  
don't answer that. I don't got all  
night. You might as well get in here, too. I think somebody  
wants to talk to you."  
  
He moved aside to reveal Thatcher, framed in the doorway,  
her face as close to being lit up  
as bureaucratic protocol would allow. She was trying very  
hard not to look beautiful, and  
failing miserably.  
  
Their eyes met for a long moment.  
  
"Understood," Fraser said quietly, and followed  
the two Rays into the office.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------  
Nathan Alderman "Progress has always been  
Northwestern University made by people who took  
ICQ: 8457866 unpopular positions."  
http://charlotte.at.nwu.edu/nma912 -- Adlai E. Stevenson  
Return to Due South Fiction Archive


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